


The Clothes Make the Vamp?

by ilcuoreardendo



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Scratching, Strangulation, Vampire Sex, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilcuoreardendo/pseuds/ilcuoreardendo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The suit and tie are Jerry’s little poke at human death rituals."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clothes Make the Vamp?

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted at my [Tumblr.](http://ilcuoreardendo-fic.tumblr.com)

 

* * *

 

 

The suit and tie are Jerry’s little poke at human death rituals. Who the hell wastes good clothes on a corpse that’s going to burn or turn to so much dust? 

But there’s something to be said about seeing Charley, still streaked with blood from where Jerry had ripped into his carotid, squirming out of the earth in this put-together suit that clings in all the right places, outlines the length of his legs, the breadth of his shoulders. 

Charley stands, sways, looks down at himself, face marred by confusion. Then he looks up, finds Jerry hidden in the shadows (the master-child connection will always let him know where to look) and smirks, shuffles forward, slipping off the dark coat, unbuttoning the white shirt as he does. His chest is lithe and pale, his belly smooth, with a line of fine dark hair in the middle that disappears into his pants. 

When he’s close enough that Jerry has to fist his fingers to avoid reaching out for him, wanting to touch and taste and—he licks his lips— _yes_ , fuck his new creation, Charley whips the tie from his neck and wraps it around Jerry’s throat, pulling it tight. 

If Jerry  _had_  to breathe, this might pose a problem.

As it is, the pressure cutting off his airway, bearing down on the inhumanly slow beat of his pulse, and the look in Charley’s eyes as he wraps the excess of the tie tighter around his fingers, heats him up, makes him hard. 

He rips through the tie with the slash of a nail, growls, twists Charley around and seats the squirming boy in his lap. Charley spits and hisses, scrapes at Jerry’s arms with blunt nails that, were he human, would have only left score marks; now, they draw blood. Jerry slaps him, gently, but the blow is still enough to make Charley’s head snap to the side, to leave him woozy and compliant. 

But only for a minute.

By the time Jerry’s thumbed the button of Charley’s fly open, the kid is growling again. And Jerry fists his hands in Charley’s hair, devours those growls with tongue and teeth.

He has an eternity to bring the boy in line. 


End file.
